


Death of the Petals

by doctor__idiot



Series: Tumblr Prompts [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, M/M, Wincest Writing Challenge, fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Dean has always thought that fall held some sort of magic.





	Death of the Petals

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the October Wincest Writing Challenge. Prompt: Death of the Petals. I took some inspiration from [this picture](http://doctor--idiot.tumblr.com/post/166787292491) (NSFW).

Dean has always thought that fall held some sort of magic. It might have to do with the colors, the chilly air that he can just barely see his breath in. Nature is going to sleep around him, flowers losing their petals, trees shedding their gowns of leaves.

It’s not even his favorite season, he’s a spring guy all the way, loves watching the rebirth of nature while waiting for the temperatures to rise above freezing. But there’s simply something fascinating about fall.

He doesn’t particularly like Halloween and their family never bought into the tradition of Thanksgiving, but it’s not about that. It’s about the strong light of the sinking sun late in the afternoon, painting the ground in a reddish brown and the withering flowers in a strange hue of purple. It’s about the storms that come. It’s about those late, lazy mornings and about bonfires.

He knows people all over go crazy over their pumpkin-whatever-lattes once October rolls around and Halloween and Christmas decorations live side by side in the stores, and to be honest, all of that still confuses him. Overwhelms him.

But he likes the quiet. Streets that are empty due to the cold and clammy weather. It’s a pain sometimes, to have the sun right in his eyes while he drives because it sets so early now, but once it’s gone and the world looks just that tiny bit more deserted in the dim light, he likes to roll down the window and breathe the air that smells like wet leaves.

Fall always holds a promise. Of short days and long nights, of cozy afternoons spent in front of the fire – and Dean really misses Rufus’s cabin, misses that fireplace smack in the middle of it. He could do without the mud and the rain for the most part but that’s all part of the experience.

The ground is still soft and the heavy boots that fall behind him make slurping sounds, revealing their position to Dean, who doesn’t even tense up where he is settled back against the hood of his car.

“You’ve been out here a while,” Sam remarks when he has caught up with Dean, leaning sideways against the bumper, one hand braced on the hood, “Sure you’re not getting cold?”

“I’m fine, _mom_ ,” Dean pronounces and shoots his brother a small smile before kicking off the Impala, rocking it slightly, and turning around to face Sam. “I’s just thinking … Remember that night in Rufus’s cabin where–where we came back covered in swamp water, freezing our asses of?”

Sam is looking at him with his arms crossed comfortably in front of his chest. His face is half in the shadow and the sun has already set, so Dean can’t quite make out his expression but he thinks he sees the hint of a smirk in the corner of Sam’s mouth.

“Hm,” Sam hums, “You nagged me into getting a fire started and called first shower like the jerk you are.”

Dean grins broadly at him, saying, “Bitch,” out of principle. Then he adds, “I remember how we lay on the blanket in front of the fire to warm up.”

Sam stays quiet for a moment, then says, “That’s not all we did to warm up.”

“So you do remember.” Dean slumps against the car again, sliding his ass back until he’s sitting on the hood, the heel of his right foot braced on the front bumper.

“‘Course I do.” Sam is looking down at his hands, fingers flexing against the seam of his jeans, his hair falling into his face. “It was … a special night. You know, before everything kind of went to shit.”

He clears his throat and Dean looks over, nods although he’s not sure Sam can see it. “Yeah, it did, didn’t it.”

He suddenly wishes he had a beer. Not because he wants to get drunk per se but because it’s their _thing_. Sitting on the car, talking. Drinking. His hand twitches, muscle memory. He rubs it against his thigh.

“I think about that a lot,” Sam says quietly after a minute.

“About how it all went bad?”

Sam shakes his head.

“About that night?”

Another quick shake, then a nod. “Yeah, but not just that. I think about … us, I think about how–how it was all pretty good there for a while. Amazing, actually.”

For a moment, Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. They haven’t been on the same page in a long time. They used to be more intuitive, in sync with each other without having to think about it. Easy like breathing.

They can’t seem to catch a break.

Forget the beer, whiskey is what he needs.

He sighs. It’s loud in the eerie silence of the evening.

“I think about it, too,” he admits because it’s easier in the dark. “I … I miss it. Sometimes.”

Sam turns his head to look at him.

Dean looks down. “All of the time.”

Sam says nothing. His breathing is even and Dean subconsciously mimics the pattern. Their shoulders brush with their chests rising and falling.

It’s strange. Spring should be the season of novelty. Of new beginnings. Of blossoming. But somehow, fall has always symbolized all that for Dean. Death to him, to them, doesn’t mean what it means to other people. It simply means something has to go for something else, for a new version, to take its place.

Next to him, Sam gives a shuddery breath and Dean leans in, drawn to Sam like he always has been, a familiar pull that he follows blindly. Their shoulders knock together harder until Sam turns his torso, Dean fitting into him like he used to and all Dean has to do is tilt his chin up that little bit and their mouths slot together perfectly, just like they always did.

Sam chuckles against him, equal amounts of surprise and relief, and Dean sighs again, opens his mouth against the softness of Sam’s lips. His fingers are knotted in the hem of Sam’s Henley, pulling it tight against Sam’s hip as they angle into each other. Dean nearly slips off the hood but Sam snakes an arm around his waist and pulls him in and it’s everything he has been yearning for. Sam’s large hand is splayed against his back and Dean arches into the touch, fingers tangled in Sam’s hair, kissing him harder like it’s the only way they can make up for lost time.

He pulls back when he desperately needs to breathe, pressing their foreheads together and Sam makes a little noise in the back of his throat, cupping Dean’s jaw. “Okay,” he says, “Okay, this–this is good, we’re good.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, his nose brushing his brother’s, “We are.”

It’s getting chilly now, barely any sunlight left, and Dean thinks he can smell rain coming but he doesn’t want to move. He kisses Sam again, nudging his mouth open with his tongue, and they both moan quietly.

They’re still in the same spot, still making out stupidly like teenagers at their junior prom, when the first rain drops start to fall.


End file.
